


Truths and Consequences

by WolfVenom



Series: R6S Drabbles [18]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Bonding, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, Military, Not Shippy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Request Meme, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14969126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: Two surviving operators of the Outbreak in New Mexico find comfortable solace in one another after the horror.





	Truths and Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> Always and forever special thanks to Kiru for being an absolute babe and proofreading my messes. Thank you for being there for me, sugar :D

 

The sprawling hills of greens and greys are a welcome change to months spent staring at debris-littered dust, valleys now instead filled with luscious crops and a lovely spread of brush painting the treeline with amiable shelter from the elements. Behind every blink, Buck can see the luminescent reds of the roaches and the matching walls with which the creatures grew their nests. 

 

While it was happening, when adrenaline was skyrocketing and exhaustion crippling his mind, it was easier to forget the absolute horror of it all; flashes of blood and episodes of brief panic the moment before waking from a nightmare topped with sprawling tendrils of flesh. The rotten smells clung to every follicle in his nose and shrieks of monsters rang clear through his ears, neverending white noise that chased away any and all peace he had hoped to find on his return back to Hereford. 

 

The chopper touched down and the others wasted no time unstrapping and taking off into the base, leaving Buck with his shaky hands and timid gaze to gather his duffel and buckle it to his back, the last to depart from the vehicle except for the pilot. His boots stomp heavy on the asphalt and the sound echoes louder in his head than it actually is, no doubt the aftereffect of near-constant stress in the last few weeks abroad. Weariness moulds into his bones and every step feels like ripping his legs off, but he disregards the aches and treads on, ensuring he gives out a friendly smile to those he passes when prompted as to not seem a complete and utter mess. 

 

Frost is kind enough to not push him for details when he shoves open the door to their living quarters, making a beeline for his bunk and not even bothering to untie his boots before pulling an emergency crash landing to the crisp sheets therein. A heavy sigh escapes his chest and Tina makes the smallest chuckle before sleep finally takes him, too tired to even dream.

  
  
  


It’s around seven o’clock in the evening by the time he awakens from his nap, making it about a ten-hour rest under his belt. That alone should be enough to feel rejuvenated, but Buck grumbles and curses to himself as his body still creaks and is somehow worse than before. Frost is nowhere in sight though her bed is made and her desk strewn with various components of her traps. She must be in the mess hall for a late dinner. Caveira is usually skulking around there about this time, anyway.

 

For the first time in ages Buck actually feels  _ disgruntled.  _ His usually joyous outlook on life is replaced by existential dread and a crawling inkling of frustration that he can’t even explain, just one of many negative moods clouding his head. There's no reason for him to feel so down in the dumps and yet he does anyway. 

 

He decides to visit Doc for a quick check-in before resorting to anything strenuous. The medic is elbow deep in various body parts and infected corpses in the quarantine tents outside, so Buck drags off his beanie and holds it over his mouth and nose as he enters, obviously distressing the man who berates him about health and safety cautions.

 

It’s not like he’s going to touch the bodies, so Buck just smiles to himself, “ _Bonjour_ _docteur, comment allez-vous?_ ” he questions first, receiving a grunt sounding something akin to _‘Ça va, monsieur’_ , before Doc returns to poking and prodding his current experiment with abandon, hardly making eye contact. It’s a welcome respite to speak his familiar language after so long without, but he fears there is no explanation nor word in French for the things about which he wishes to speak to Doc. 

 

He shuffles nervously, “Do you… Do you think you have anything for, uhm… Just for treating moodiness?” he asks, “I haven’t been feeling right ever since…” 

 

Buck doesn’t need to finish his sentence. Doc places his tools down softly on the metallic examination table and heaves a breath, removing his bloodied latex gloves before turning to meet Buck’s eyes with his own.

 

“I have something that can help, yes. If you are not fond of partaking in  _ medical marijuana _ , then I can offer you this,” he shuffles around in his temporary makeshift desk, pulling out various orange bottles before settling on a small container of little white tablets, “Venlafaxine. Twice daily as needed, preferably with meals. I’ll fill you out with a month-long prescription and we can see how you respond. Check in with me regularly, any side effects must be treated immediately.”

 

He pawns off the bottle and Buck checks the label thoughtfully before stuffing it in his pocket, offering Doc an unseen smile evident by the faint crinkle of his eyes. 

 

“ _ Merci,  _ thank you so much. I’ll let you get back to--” he waves a hand around at the tables of dead roaches and the various other medical personal strutting around, “whatever you’re dissecting.” 

 

Doc offers a quick smile and tears out another pair of latex from the box on the table, and Buck shoves through the heavy tent flaps and into the fresh outside. His beanie is returned to his head and the meds rattle a bit, but the social interaction and clean air lift his spirits just a smidge enough to feel better. In his mind, he sifts through the many thoughts and ideas he can pick apart for entertainment, planning a course to the lunchroom and then the recreation room for some relaxation.

 

There’s only a small gaggle of operators in the kitchen when he arrives, composed only of the younger SAS and the Navy pair, none of which try to include him in their heated discussion. Which, don’t get him wrong, Buck’s glad for the consideration yet oddly feeling a bit left out of the loop. Most likely a mood again, best to shrug off with the rest and putter about himself.

 

Sunset quickly befalls the grounds outside, from dark blues to pinks and oranges to blacks, time drags into the drowsy hours and Buck wanders around, looking for something to do. There’s an incessant tingle under his tongue he can’t get rid of, a siren quietly wailing in his head that won’t go away and the lack of activities to do puts him at an impasse. 

 

So, once he mixes himself some hot cocoa, his feet drag him to the recreation room which he fully expects to be devoid of life. 

 

There's a small snack bar installed in the farthest corner of the space, neon lights gently spinning in woozy circles across the ceiling, and various alcoholic and virgin beverages stuffed in every nook and cranny available. Across one long wall, a flat screen television adorns the surface dancing with bright light as an unnamed motion picture flits to and fro, and before that, a body lies curled up on a leather sofa. 

 

At first Buck is shocked but quickly remedies his surprised expression and approaches, making as much noise as he can as to not shock the person. A grumble is all the warning he gets as Tachanka’s less-than-friendly face peeks up over the cushion, notes who disturbs him, and then snuggles back down with a huff. 

 

Buck shrugs. 

 

There's more than enough room on the couch for two people, so Buck inhabits the smallest sliver of space he can on the opposite end and drops down, mug warm under his palms. 

 

Tachanka is lounging ungracefully to his left in a rather awkward manner. His head rests in the divot between arm and head of the furniture, and his large form takes up nearly two cushions, one leg crooked upon the seat and another on the floor. It's a boisterous position, yet all care washes away under stress. Buck simply saddles in comfortably, sipping his drink, and watches the foreign film with his silent partner. 

 

There are no subtitles on the screen, Russian words flying fast from the characters and Buck can hardly keep up, resorting to just watching the picture and piecing the details together in his own time. 

 

It continues for about half an hour like this before Tachanka actually speaks up, tone uncharacteristically low and rough, “do you want to watch something else?” 

 

Buck, taken aback, freezes in place and gives a small shrug in response, caught off guard with the one question for which he had no answers prepared. 

 

It takes him a while to ponder, digest the words and come up with a response, settling for a simple “I don't mind.” 

 

Tachanka scoffs. “You cannot understand a word they are saying,” before exiting his show with one push of the controller button and pulling up the main Netflix menu. It takes him less than half a second to pick a different movie, completely in English, and settle back down to watch, leaving Buck a bit perplexed. 

 

The PlayStation controller rests between them both, some raunchy comedy playing off the surround sound, and Buck ever so slowly is drawn into the film, growing lazed and dazed to the point where his body seems to be pulled down to the ground. Before the climax even begins, Buck has already sprawled across Tachanka's leg and discarded his empty cup on the floor, a quilt haphazardly tossed about his lower body for warmth where his head finds it in the thigh beneath him. 

 

“Did you know the actor and actress who played those two siblings were married in real life when the movie was filmed?” he catches himself mumbling, and feels the toes under his back wiggle in exasperation. 

 

“Hush, I want to know if they won the tournament,” Chanka whispers, eyes glued to the TV, “a same-sex team, who would have even thought. In Russia, you'd probably be arrested.” 

 

His words are spoken with a dejected tone, filled with a semblance of regret Buck’s mind can't quite place with one foot in the dream world and the other wondering how he landed this close to the Russian. By then, his mind is simply pondering Tachanka’s words with disdain, remembering all that ever went wrong in his country with the world progressing as it is. 

 

It turns out Tachanka isn't finished, “You know, Timur doesn't want to go back home now. All the shit going on over there scared him right off, the fuckers,” his accent is thicker when he starts ranting, and Buck just splays idly across his lap further and further up unconsciously, the heat from his body delicious on his cold hands.

 

“Probably why I'm always so pissed at Shuhrat, kids these days are more stuck up than I am, and I'm an old man.” In his little rant, Tachanka manages to tug off Buck’s beanie and knead his hair in frustration. This close, Buck can nearly taste the vodka and knows that he was probably relaxing with a drink earlier on. 

 

Buck listens. “The amount of times I'd have to grind him away from Timur would have my grandmother weeping. Sébastien, why is it so hard for people to just accept each other, eh? If a man wants to lay with another man, who cares? I just don't get it,” he fumes while the movie ends, main characters cheering and all. Buck is honestly surprised something this heartfelt could come from someone so hardy. 

 

“It’s a world full of animals, ‘Chanka. Can't train a pack of wolves to beg for food when they've been hunting for it all their lives.” Buck says, nuzzling his cheek into the belly provided to him and closing his eyes. The usually strong voice is whittled down to a rattling hum and Buck relaxes under the vibrations it sends out, feeling sleepy though not wishing for sleep yet in favour of absorbing his tales greedily. 

 

Tachanka drawls on about the old wars he took part in, aging scars and even deeper ones on his heart. Friends and family he lost, the bigotry in Russia, that one time Kapkan broke his leg trying to save an orphaned bear cub from a flimsy tree. His stories are spun from moonlit silk and Buck swears he can almost thread each detail through his fingers, every word as riveting and emotional as the last. 

 

By the time two movies have auto-played after the first, Buck has cozied down between both of Tachanka’s legs on the sofa, the two men comfortable and droning back and forth while criticizing the newest film. Some stupid drama about four boys and their dumb powers, Tachanka says, but he's more focused on weaving his way through the soft hair on Buck’s head and face, akin to that of a cuddly kitten. 

 

When all that stares back at them is a blank screen asking if they're still watching, Buck’s mood has done a full one-eighty and he's landed back in a slump, mind woefully blank and no emotions left to spark the flame. 

 

It seems like Tachanka gets the same feeling, because he too soon starts shuffling anxiously and the tugs in Buck’s hair get a bit forceful, though not at all harsh. 

 

So the Frenchman takes it upon himself to address the smasher in the room. “You ever just close your eyes and see a little pink rabbit? Bloodied to a near brown and torn all over? The little girl I met in T or C died hugging that rabbit… Seeing her healthy skin turn grey and her bones turn to spikes,” he says in a near inaudible voice. Tachanka stiffens, but his ears remain open and his mouth closed. “I haven't felt scared like that in a long time. I had forgotten what it was like.”

 

A calloused palm comes up on his shoulder, a firm press that grounds him and steers him clear from the memory. Fire burns behind his eyes but he dare not shed a tear over events come to pass, instead focusing on the living, breathing being behind him and relishing in the newfound comfort it brings. 

 

He would much rather make peace along with Tachanka than relive it alone. Hot cocoa heats him up from the belly and a furnace of a body heats him from the back, a different kind of warmth than that of the sun. It stung, but it soothed just as well. And that seemed just fine. 


End file.
